_ 1825.) 
that we should trust it to the hand of this 
rather ambiguous eulogist. 
The Arabs, a Tale, in Four Cantos. By 
Henry Austin Driver—is a poem, the 
preduction, we uiderstand, ,of a young 
Cantab, with which we have been more 
than ordinarily pleased. - It is dedicated to 
Tom Moors, and will do no discredit to 
him, nor to the author: it is, in truth, one 
of those occasional flashings of genius, 
which, amidst so much poetical mediocrity, 
now and then appear, to revive and solace 
us. The story is amatory, but it is, never- 
theless, mixed up with considerable pathos, 
and some vivid description, which entitle it 
to the epithet Byronic. There is also a 
graceful terseness in the numbers, that 
possesses an irresistible charm, and encou- 
rages us to hope, as we believe it is the 
first, that it will not be the last effort of 
this elegant writer’s muse. We have little 
room for extract, but we cannot deny our- 
selves the pleasure of presenting our readers 
with the following description of evening 
from the third canto :— 
«© When she had breath’d her orisons, and told, 
With pious frequency, her beads of gold, 
Invited by the beauty of the hour, 
Whose parting light still linger’d in her bower, 
She enter’d on the trellis’d gallery 
Which fac’d the vale; and, with enthusiast eye, 
Look’d forth upon thescene. The earth and sky 
Embrac’d—like those who part in amity: 
The lovely world beneath her was besprent 
With flowers of beauty, like a firmament 
Of blooming stars; and glowing o’er her head 
Hung a celestial garden, richly spread 
With blushing clouds, resembling, in their hue, 
Myriads of roses in a field of blue.” 
- The whole of the third canto, indeed, is 
beautiful, and some passages of it even ex- 
quisitely so. The description of “ the 
dome-crown’d palace of the Pacha,” for 
example, “ High on a rock, above Al 
Kolzom’s flood,” with its “black and 
scowling precipice’ —its waters moaning, 
“in cavern’d solitude,” beneath—its ‘huge 
trees” stretching, with their “ entwined 
boughs,” in rank luxuriance, down “ the 
steep and yawning cliff,” which formed the 
“ dusky bay,” &c., has a poetry of imagery 
and feeling, which, as we have purposely 
shewn by the very mode of our quotation, 
requires not the assistance either of the 
typographical arrangement of its lines, or 
the felicitous succession of its rhythmus, 
to give it poetic semblance ; and the con- 
clusion of the stanza gives a vital spirit and 
sentiment to the whole, that links the 
solemn sympathies of humanity with the 
picturesque sublime of inanimate nature, 
in a way that nothing but the genuine 
fervour of poetic inspiration could suggest. 
** So wild, so perilous, uncouth and drear, 
Did that repulsive solitude appear, 
‘That even the flowers which had been train'’d above, 
To.soothe its aspect, serv’d but to bestow 
Such look as Madness wears when he hath wove 
A garland to adorn his moody brow.” 
Domestic and Foreign. 
549 
Of passages of pith and comprehensive 
import, happily and harmoniously expressed, 
we might select abundant instances. ‘The 
following allusion to the devotional feelings 
of Otho, the hero of the love-tale, shall 
suffice :— 
«© He lov’d not temples foul with bigotry; 
His was the vast cathedral of the sky, 
’Neath whose blue arch the mountain-altars stand— 
The noblest, being rais’d by God’s own hand.” 
The poem is evidently formed upon 
the model of Lord Byron. But the, 
author has caught much of the poetic spirit’ 
of his original ; and if he rivals not, as yet, 
the force and power, he has the merit of 
being free from the bitterness and misan- 
thropy, of that great master of the British 
Lyre. a i 
Bulls from Rome and British Mastiffs ; 
a Poem.—A few lines at the commence- 
ment led us to hope for something like 
vigorous and pointed satire, with some- 
thing of the sting of Juvenal. 
«* Rome !—wond’rous Rome !—who has not heard of 
Rome? , 
God's chosen footstool—and a Nero’s home,— 
The Throne of Grace where sins are all forgiv’n ; 
Saint Peter’s See, the porter-lodge of heaven; 
Wedded for better and for worse to fame, 
Men’s throats are hoarse with syllabling her name. 
One while—the Queen of Nations ; and anon— 
The Beast—the Harlot-Quean of Babylon.” 
But the horned god, with his grin of 
merry malice, quickly gives place to cer- 
tain well-known nymphs, who haunt a 
region not very like either to Parnassus or 
Arcadia, though in general not less elo- 
quent of vituperative song: nymphs long 
held in awe, if not in veneration, for that 
never-failing fervour of the inflatus which 
gives energy to their tropes and metaphors. 
In short, the author, who seems to have 
some talent, has not yet learned the 
difference between poignancy and scur- 
rility, between satire and lampoon; and 
sinks the poet in the prejudiced slanderer 
and the scold. The bigotry of the purpose 
is even worse than the rancour of the lan- 
guage. 
Letter to Mr. Coleridge, the Editor of the 
Quarterly Review, on his late Review of 
Mr. Campbell's Theodric, and other Poems. 
—A very angry tirade upon a very poor 
criticism of a very indifferent work. The 
letter-writer, however, serves but little the 
cause he advocates, since he neither de- 
tects any specific misrepresentations in the 
critic, nor quotes any striking beauties from 
the poet, to nullify the censure. He scolds, 
and scolds, indeed: but scolding proves 
nothing but the anger of the shrew that 
vents it. We wish Mr. Campbell a better 
vindicator. The whole worth of these 
sixteen pages is the publicity given to the 
fact, that the nephew of S. T. Coleridge 
now holds the responsible situation of Edi- 
tor of the Quarterly Review. We think 
it good for the literary public that mysteries 
of this description should be laid open as 
much 
